


And Nothing But the Truth

by happybeans



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Drama, Drugs, Every genre imaginable, Fluff, Foggy Nelson POV, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Karaoke (more or less), M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Previous Sexual Abuse, Romance, They bake a cake guys!, This isn't a heavy fic I SWEAR, Truth Serum, Wholesome Fun, anxiety disorders, toes the line of crack towards the middle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24989413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happybeans/pseuds/happybeans
Summary: Matt gets hit with a truth serum. It makes for a fun day off...until secrets start to come out.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 297





	And Nothing But the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! So I do have a couple of trigger warnings for this one. First of all, Matt has a panic attack halfway through this. Second, I made Matt and Foggy both childhood sexual abuse (CSA) victims in this, and they discuss this about ¾ of the way through the story.  
> To be specific, Matt was forced to watch porn by Stick, and Foggy had a creepy uncle that took his clothes off and looked at him. They describe these events in this story, but you could probably scroll and skip over it if you don’t want to see it. Still, make the choice that’s right for you.

It’s around seven in the morning when Foggy gets the text that starts this whole event. Towel wrapped around the goods, he taps his phone to check the time on his way to the dresser. 

“I shouldn’t come in to work today,” reads Matt’s text.

Foggy sighs out a breath. If Matt’s admitting to it, it must be serious. He sits down on the edge of the bed and unplugs his phone, dialing Matt’s number and listening to it ring before it goes to voicemail.

Rolling his eyes, Foggy hangs up and has started typing out a text message when Matt calls him back.

“Hey—” Foggy starts to say but stops himself as Matt says:

“Sorry I didn’t answer. I panicked, but that was mean.”

Foggy tilts his head, mouth parted open. With a confused laugh, he asks, “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Matt answers immediately. “I’m—” He cuts himself off, and a short beat of mumbling follows. 

“What the—whatever. What’s up? Are you hurt?”

“Yes.” Foggy flinches back. “My cracked rib still hurts whenever I breathe, and some criminal hit my arm with a crowbar last night. It really sucked.”

With a wince, Foggy asks if he talked to Claire.

“There’s nothing she can do. Anyways, it’s not that bad. I had worse when—I’ve had worse.”

“Okay,” Foggy says slowly. “Well, thanks for telling me, buddy. Enjoy your day off.”

Matt hangs up without responding.

Whatever. Foggy sets to getting dressed and has just started running a comb through his hair when his phone rings again. 

“Hello?”

“That was rude. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Are you—”

“I hung up because of the same reason I can’t come to work.”

“Which is…?” Foggy hasn’t had his coffee yet, so his own patience is surprising even himself. 

“I don’t want to tell you.”

Foggy feels a flash of emotion—hurt, anger—blast through him, but before he can object, Matt continues:

“Which is so unfair, because I was serious when I told you no more lies, but I’m scared—please don’t hang up. Something happened on patrol last night.”

“Besides the crowbar?” Foggy jokes out of a weird combination of habit and nervousness.

“I think somebody gave me a truth serum.”

Foggy lets that sink in for a moment. “Who? Why do you think that?”

“You’ll be mad; don’t make me say it.”

“Well, of course I’ll be mad if somebody hurt you.” Foggy runs a hand across his face. “Look, I’m coming over.”

“No, you don’t have to bother yourself,” Matt says. “I don’t want to annoy you.”

“You couldn’t annoy me,” Foggy says, and he’s already standing up to find other, more casual, clothes.

“I don’t believe you.”

Letting out a breath, Foggy says, “I’ll make you believe me. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“No, Foggy—”

“Ckshk, you’re breaking up—”

“I know you’re doing that with your mouth—”

“Ckshk, be there in twenty, bye!”

 _Oh, Matt,_ Foggy thinks to himself. _What have you gotten yourself into this time?_

————————

“...and I think they must have been the hired help, because they gave up really easily, considering.”

Foggy smirks, even though he was right: Matt should have left this one to the police. “So you basically monologued them into submission. Great job, pal.”

Matt grins back. “I’m told I can be very persuasive.” The grin fades. “I tried to patrol after—don’t be mad about it; I really was fine—but I found myself being somewhat...overly honest.”

Jolting to sit up, Foggy puts his hands on the table. “Did you tell anyone your identity?”

He’s already deciding which Argentinian village they’re moving to when Matt says:

“No. Thankfully.” Foggy lets out his breath. “Mainly it was just some colorful threats, and things like that.”

An image of Matt in his Daredevil get-up telling some mugger about his cracked rib pops into Foggy’s mind. It’s not an unwelcome thought.

“Happy to hear it.” Foggy rests his elbow on the table, his chin cradled in his hand on top. “So—hmm. You can’t lie at all?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried it.”

“Let’s start simple: are you hungry?”

Matt’s quiet for a few moments, face twisting and twitching before he says finally, “No. That’s the truth.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“Lunch yesterday.”

Mouth scrunched to the side, Foggy mutters, “Don’t need to ask if that one’s the truth.”

“It is,” Matt says anyway.

With a nod, Foggy stands up to walk over to the fridge and pantry. “You know, with your activities, you should probably be eating more, not less.”

“I know.” After a moment of quiet, he adds, “I try to make sure I eat.”

Foggy hums. “How’s an omelet sound?”

There’s a hesitation. “It sounds okay.”

“But?” Foggy prompts.

“I want pancakes.”

Foggy can’t help his grin. “Pancakes it is.”

Matt taps the table a couple of times then says, “Wait, I’ll eat an omelet.”

“Would you prefer an omelet?”

“...No, but—”

“Matt, it’s breakfast. Chill out.”

Gathering the ingredients to Mama Nelson’s Famous Kickass-Cakes from around Matt’s kitchen, Foggy says, “So, the eating thing. Is that a super-senses thing or…?”

“Yes.”

Foggy hums, stooping down to pull a bowl from its drawer. He opens his mouth, but Matt says:

“That was a lie. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Foggy says slowly, confused. “Wanna tell me what the problem is?”

“Which one? I have lots. I wish I didn’t say that.”

Plopping the bowl on the counter, Foggy makes a noise in the back of his throat. “We’ll start with the eating problem and circle back.”

“You’re really smart, Foggy. Focused. I love that about you. As for eating, it’s difficult because I’m simply not hungry a lot of the time.”

It’s concerning, but he doesn’t look like he’s losing weight. “Just make sure you keep eating,” Foggy says. “Three square meals—even if you don’t feel like it.”

“I know,” Matt says. “It’s just hard, and—take now, for instance. Blender-Man’s having sex a couple floors down. I feel very awkward about it.”

“Blender-Man?” Foggy asks, eyeballing some flour and sugar then looking back to see Matt nod.

“He really likes smoothies in the morning.”

Foggy groans. “I hate that. Make it the night before.”

“Agreed.”

As he hunts for a whisk to stir the dry ingredients together, Foggy considers. “That has to be annoying, hearing personal things like that all the time.”

“It’s gross,” Matt confirms. “But I block it out pretty well. It was worse when I was a kid.”

The whisk falls from Foggy’s hand into the bowl. “You said you were nine when you got your powers?” he hears himself ask.

“Yeah, nine.”

“You’re been hearing things like that since you were nine?”

He looks back to see Matt frowning. Shaking his head, Foggy sets to mixing the wet ingredients in, too lazy to pull out a second bowl.

“Well… I mean, everything was pretty jumbled before Stick trained me. So not quite when I was nine.”

Foggy ignores the rationalization, turning on the stove, planting a pan on top, then setting to making coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. 

“Buddy…” Foggy says gently. “That had to have been difficult, hearing things like that all the time as a kid.”

“I mean…” Foggy looks back to see Matt’s face tilted towards the table, hands twisting together on top. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You know it’s okay if it’s not fine, right? Because if I had to overhear adults having sex every night as a nine year-old, I don’t know if I’d be okay with it.”

Matt’s quiet for a moment. “Stick always said it was just another part of life. He used it in training, once or twice.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Foggy freezes. “What do you mean he used it in training?” he asks, slamming the lid of the coffee-maker down and clicking “Start” before whirling around to face Matt.

Matt’s hands still, and he faces Foggy, turning red. “I—um. Nevermind?”

The coffee pot gurgles. Foggy turns off the stovetop. 

“No,” he says, “I think I want to hear about this.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Matt claims. “It doesn’t matter. It’s no big deal.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Come on, buddy. Talk to me.”

“He would—no.” He covers his mouth with a hand for a moment then says through his fingers, “It’s—it’s stupid, and you’ll—” His other hand slams on top.

Foggy tries for a smile. “I’ll what?” he asks gently.

“You won’t like it,” Matt mumbles miserably, still behind his hands.

“Why not?”

He removes his hands to say, “Because Stick was—he helped me so much; I don't know where I’d be now without his training, but his methods were...somewhat...inideal. He wasn’t a very good teacher, or mentor, or person.”

Foggy takes a moment to soak that in. Finally, he says, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He spins back around and turns the stove back on. He feels for the heat above the pan then opens the drawer scattered with utensils and pulls out a ladle and spatula. 

While Foggy pours some batter onto the pan Matt eventually says: 

“I feel bad, now.”

Foggy sighs. “You don’t have to feel bad, Matt. I get it. We all have things we’d prefer not to talk about.”

“You don’t.” Matt sounds pouty as he says it. 

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t have secrets, though.”

Oh, this conversation. Foggy frowns. “I do value honesty,” he agrees. 

“I’m so sorry, Foggy. I’m the worst. You deserve so much better than me.”

“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talking about,” Foggy objects. He swallows then continues, “I already told you: it’s okay. We’re moving past the whole…” He gestures vaguely, finishing, “You know.”

Matt’s quiet for a couple of seconds, so Foggy wrongly assumes the topic is finished.

He freezes when he hears a sniffle, spinning around to see—

“I’m sorry.” Matt wipes at his eyes, quick swipes across his face with the back of one hand, glasses held loosely in the other. “Sorry. I don’t mean to cry.”

Foggy’s mouth moves wordlessly. “I—that’s okay,” he manages. “You know you can cry in front of me. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t like crying. It makes me feel gross, and it means I’m letting my emotions best me and that makes me weak. That’s what Stick said.”

The more Foggy hears about Stick, the more his image of a wise, kind, and old Kung Fu master wavers like rippling water.

“Do you think I’m weak when I cry?” he asks because he knows Matt’s head will snap up and he’ll say:

“No, of course not.”

“Okay.” Foggy turns back around to snag a plate from the cupboard then flips the pancakes as he continues, “So it’s fine for me to cry, and I’m assuming it’s fine for Karen to cry, so why are you any different?”

“I don’t know,” Matt mumbles, still hiding behind his hand. “It’s—he wanted me to be a perfect soldier.”

The fuck? “What does that even mean?” he asks, looking back in time to catch Matt’s shaking head.

“Some war… He never actually told me any details.”

Well, that’s concerning. “So, this ‘soldier’ thing—” Foggy finger-quotes around the spatula— “Is that actually what you want for yourself?”

“Why are you asking that?” Matt asks, voice high with hurt. “Of course I don’t want that. There are much more important things than Stick’s bullshit war. That’s what I told him last time he came around.”

Foggy lets go of the rest of that, finishing his point by saying, “So Stick’s opinions on crying, and—let’s be honest—probably many other things, they don’t matter. Just do you, Murdock.”

“Do me,” Matt repeats, voice soft and sounding like the thought is a revelation. 

Foggy laughs as he checks on the pancakes, saying, “Yeah. Be yourself, follow your heart. Do you.”

“And if ‘doing myself’ involves running around in a mask at night?”

“You just said ‘doing yourself’ with a straight face,” Foggy points out, and he figures he doesn’t have to say much more than that. 

“I don’t have a straight anything,” Matt says with sass, and Foggy snorts.

“Alright, baby gay, I hear you.”

Matt had his bisexual awakening midway through 2L. Luckily he had loud-and-proud Foggy there to cheer him on.

“So, I can lie,” Matt says a couple minutes later, just as Foggy’s scraping the last of the batter out of the bowl. “For example: that sound feels good in my ears and not like nails on a chalkboard at all.”

Foggy winces in sympathy, dropping the ladle.

“The issue is that I’m—well, remember finals week of our first year? I feel like that.”

Foggy’s going to spin a yarn. 

When Foggy was in third grade, he had a pet, Abrahamster Lincoln, a noble little gray dwarf-hamster. It took him years to convince his mom to let him get Abrahamster, but he was a decent owner for an elementary schooler, so she let him get another maybe half a year later. 

So he went to the pet store, and he bought little GraHam Cracker. Then he walked home with his box carefully cradled in his hands and set him free in the hamster cage with his new BFF.

To say that things went to shit is an understatement. It was hamster-geddon. 

Abrahamster descended on GraHam within an instant. The fight was merciless. It took Foggy a couple of seconds to get them apart, pulling GraHam out of the cage and having his finger scratched and bitten in the process. 

Poor GraHam. As it turns out, hamster PTSD is a real thing.

But the point is: in that short instant before Abrahamster ruined his life, GraHam stood in that cage, apprehensive, nose-twitching and on-edge, some animal-brained part of him knowing of the imminent danger that Foggy couldn’t see, himself.

And that was finals week of 1L. Matt spent the entire week caught in that tense moment. There were many a ill-hidden panic attack, many a skipped meal. Foggy’s pretty sure Matt didn’t sleep a wink that week, even when his eyes were closed. 

It’s not a pleasant memory for either of them.

“That bad, huh?” Foggy asks as he sets the bowl and ladle in the sink.

“I’m very anxious,” Matt agrees. “I keep thinking that if I don’t tell the truth...bad things will happen. We’ll keep it at that.”

Considering Matt’s activities and overactive imagination, Foggy’s not sure if he wants clarification on those “bad things.”

Clicking off the stove then placing the final pancakes on the plate, Foggy tosses the spatula into the sink then searches for a second plate and cutlery. Then he fishes out a knife and drags the butter dish from its place beside the stove, setting to smearing butter on their Kick-ass Cakes.

“So, let’s rationalize this,” Foggy says as he works. “You’re thinking these things because you’ve been drugged. That’s reality. How could telling a lie possibly cause your head to be cut off, or whatever nonsense you’re thinking?”

Matt lets out a laughing scoff. “This isn’t the French Revolution in my head.” He pauses. “You’re probably right—”

“I’m definitely right.”

“I guess it just feels more realistic in my head. It makes sense. You know?”

“I don’t know,” Foggy replies, honestly. He divvies out the pancakes, saving the hot ones for Matt, then finds the maple syrup in the cupboard: the good stuff; Matt doesn’t cheap out. “Try applying logic to it.”

Matt’s quiet while Foggy gathers together their full plates and cutlery, syrup tucked under his arm as he steps over to the table. His mouth is moved to the side as he considers Foggy’s words.

“I still don’t want to lie to you,” he says, finally.

Foggy laughs. “Me neither, buddy. I can agree with you there.”

Matt nods. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more but ultimately closes it and moves his hand in a graceful arc over the table as he subtly searches for his silverware.

“Thank you for making pancakes,” he says as he cuts a bite.

Foggy sets down the syrup from where he’s been pouring it onto his own pancakes, nudging it towards Matt. 

“Oh, I’m good,” Matt says, pausing just before he’s set to take a bite, gold pancakes contrasted against red lips. Those lips tilt into a smirk, subtle like a secret. “I only put on syrup to act normal; I can taste it from here just fine.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Foggy laughs then says, “Now, these are the juicy secrets I like to hear. What else has the mysterious Murdock been keeping inside?”

“Oh, I have plenty more,” Matt says, setting down his fork. 

Foggy can’t help the grin that forms around his bite of pancakes. 

“First, spices. You know those ‘white people foods’ that are all over Twitter?”

“I didn’t know you had Twitter,” Foggy makes out, voice already strangled. “But yes.”

Matt flips a hand, saying, “I don’t use it often. Anyways, I actually like food like that, sometimes. Most foods are already quite complex on their own. The carrots in my fridge, for instance. I can name off four distinct flavors they’re carrying off the top of my head.”

“That sounds kinda gross,” Foggy says through a bite. He swallows then asks, “Like the manure, or…?”

Matt makes a face, though he laughs, picking his fork back up. “Well, there’s that, too. I meant more like—hmm. You’re not going to understand this.”

“Try me.”

“It’s things like the other vegetables grown on the farm or that it was transported with. The rainwater. And something all fruits and vegetables taste like. Something fresh. Sunlight.”

Foggy can’t help his “pfft”ed laughter. “What does sunlight taste like?”

Matt shrugs helplessly. “It might not be sunlight. That’s the best I’ve got, though. It’s…” He shrugs again. “One-of-a-kind. It’s bright. Beautiful.”

Then he finally takes a bite, and his eyes close as his body relaxes. Foggy watches him savor it with fascination.

“This is delicious,” Matt comments after he’s finished his bite, always proper.

“I’ll tell my mom you said so.” Foggy pushes up to grab a cup of coffee, making Matt’s the same way he always has when he says, “So you like your food bland. I at least somewhat knew that.”

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Matt says, and his fork clinks as he sets it down on his plate. “I do enjoy spices. It’s just another layer of complexity. It takes the familiar flavors I know and adds something more. Bland food is just...comforting, sometimes.”

“Writing this down: ‘Matt’s comfort food is plain carrots’,” Foggy jokes as he comes back with their coffees. 

“Among the usual comfort foods, yes,” Matt says unrepentantly. “Thank you.” He takes a moment to smell his coffee before sipping it. “Mmm. I love this brand.”

“What does normal coffee taste like?” Foggy asks as he leans back in his chair, enjoying a sip of his own. Again, when it comes to food, at least, Matt doesn’t cheap out.

“Machinery,” Matt answers immediately. “And chemicals.” His serene look slips as he finishes, “And underpaid labor.”

Breathing a laugh, Foggy says, “You can’t taste underpaid labor.”

“True enough, but I know that it’s there.”

Shrugging, Foggy says, “Fair enough.”

They drink their coffee for a moment, quiet. 

“It’s really not a big deal, though,” Matt says after he clacks down his mug. He runs a hand through his hair then picks his fork back up as he continues, “Usually, I can turn it on and off. It’s comparable to when you tune out background noises while studying or working.”

“Usually,” Foggy emphasizes with a knowing look that Matt won’t see. 

Matt is very particular with his words. Unless he’s drunk or tired, his every word tends to have its own meaning and implication.

Matt smirks back. “Usually,” he agrees. “Some things will bleed through my focus.”

“Your focus on not focusing,” Foggy clarifies mirthfully. 

“Exactly. I blame Stick. Food just tasted like food before his training.” He takes a bite after, shrugging like it doesn’t matter, or maybe in an “it is what it is” sort of way.

Foggy hums. “Has to be difficult, knowing all the strange secrets of the world.”

Nodding, Matt swallows then says, “I downplay it a lot, but I hear some unpleasant things in my day-to-day life. Taste isn’t really so bad, when you factor in all the rest.”

“Blender-Man,” Foggy says, sagely, narrating as he does it, “I’m shaking my head.”

“Blender-Man,” Matt agrees, mimicking Foggy’s tone and head shake.

They get about halfway through their plates when Foggy offers up a safe, neutral topic. He doesn’t think he’s taken advantage of Matt here, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Besides, it’s been a while since they’ve had the opportunity to deep-dive into recent news and cases.

Foggy forgot how vicious Matt can be. And the truth serum only serves to enhance it: where he might normally dissent with polite, poison-laced pleasantries, he’s instead leaning back in his chair, breathing a laugh through his nose before starting, “Now, here’s why that’s dumbass.”

Truth serum-ed debate Matt is perhaps even funnier than drunk debate Matt—and that bar’s higher than the ABA.

Foggy leans back against the counter as the coffee pot churns beside him, listening as Matt says:

“It’s just like Marshall said—”

Foggy laughs. “You and Thurgood Marshall. I don’t suppose this truth serum’s going to expose some dirty secret, like that you deep down think he’s overrated.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Foggy realizes it the moment before Matt’s mouth drops.

“Thurgood Marshall was brilliant,” he says slowly.

Foggy’s waving his hands. “Matt, you don’t have to—”

“The cases he worked on have shaped America as we know her.”

“I know, bud, I was just—”

“What is the quality of your intent, Foggy?”

“It was a _joke_.”

Matt’s quiet for a moment. A pin could drop. Then he takes a big breath, and Foggy groans.

The Thurgood Marshall rant lasts for long enough that Foggy goes through nearly every emotion and all five stages of grief.

They manage to blow through the entire second pot of coffee, a feat which would have been meaningless back in law school but, with their ages reluctantly catching up to them, now leaves them amped and a little jittery.

“Well, I was going to suggest a movie,” Foggy says once it’s over, “but now…”

“Movie later,” Matt agrees, standing up to stretch his arms above his head. Foggy blatantly stares at the sliver of abs he gets a glimpse of. “Let’s do an activity. We don’t do activities anymore.”

“An activity? What, like—”

“A cake,” Matt interrupts with a grin. “We should bake a cake. For the firm.”

The last bit is tacked on, like he thinks Foggy will need convincing on this one. 

“Do you even have cake supplies?” he asks, because he knows that Matt doesn’t.

Matt waves a hand. “We’ll buy some.”

Foggy hums, standing up to crack his back. “Are you sure going out is the best idea right now?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “It’ll be fine. I can control myself, you know. Besides, we’ll only be gone for, what? Twenty minutes?”

“If you say so,” Foggy says, though he can’t help his grin. Matt’s right; this sounds like fun.

He walks over towards the kitchen, throwing open the fridge to look around. He picks up the comically-empty jug of milk and says, “Really, Matt? I thought you were over this. What do you need a thimble of milk for?”

Matt’s gathering their empty plates. He looks over with a smirk to say, “Have to be prepared for an impromptu singing mouse visit.”

“Okay, Cinderella. So are we going in on this, or are we just buying boxed?”

Tilting his head as he considers, Matt eventually says, “Let’s go all the way. When’s the next time we’ll be baking a cake?”

As he swings the fridge shut then moves on to peruse the pantry, Foggy says, “I, for one, would happily join a weekly Murdock-Nelson baking event.”

“Nelson and Murdock still sounds better.” Matt’s hand moves up, considering washing the dishes but ultimately deciding to leave it for later. “We should start a side business. Just kidding.”

Drawing in an excited breath, Foggy continues, “Nelson and Murdock: bakers at law! You’re onto something here, buddy, you really are.”

“We’ll have to change the sign, though. We probably can’t afford that.”

“Just you wait,” Foggy says, smirk growing. He looks over his shoulder to watch Matt’s reaction as he finishes, “We’re gonna be rolling in the dough. Literally.”

Matt groans, facepalming, as Foggy cackles.

Still grinning, Foggy pulls his phone out of his pocket, googling for a cake recipe. He hums as he waits then reads, “Okay, vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream—oh, yeah, buttercream. You like that stuff, right?”

Matt nods. “It’s like eating clouds,” he says seriously, and Foggy barely manages to keep in his snort.

After reading over the ingredients, Foggy tacks it out on his fingers as he says, “So, we have most of this stuff. We need more butter and eggs, and some milk.”

“Please help me buy peaches,” Matt adds. “Everybody’s been eating them, lately, and they smell so good.”

“You know I’ll go to the store with you whenever you want, Matt. Need anything else?”

“No,” Matt says, voice wavering with hesitation, and Foggy looks up from his phone to see Matt looking extra shifty, lips pressed together and head turned just slightly away.

As he rolls his eyes fondly, Foggy says, “Now, I know that you’re lying, and yet, we are not in Victorian France. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Matt at least nods at this, so Foggy nods once back in approval, going back to finishing off his reading and closing out of the page once he’s sure he didn’t miss anything.

While Matt goes to change into street clothes, Foggy stops by the bathroom.

After, they lace up their shoes and hit the road, making their way out of the apartment building. As they enter the masses on the sidewalk, Foggy takes a moment to flounder over whether he should offer out his arm. Thankfully, Matt decides it for them, reaching out due to what must be habit or instinct before stiffening. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers to Foggy.

Foggy pats his hand, saying, “Of course.”

Matt nods. “Because I understand if it makes you uncomfortable now.”

Eyebrows drawing together, Foggy asks, “Why would it make me uncomfortable? Crosswalk.”

They come to a stop, and Foggy looks over to see Matt frowning.

“Well… I don’t technically need it.”

“But it does help,” Foggy clarifies.

Matt’s face twitches. “Sure, but—”

“But nothing.” They start walking again. “Ew, gum in three, two—” Matt skips the gum, their often-rehearsed timing perfect by this point. Discreetly, Foggy asks, “What flavor was it?”

Matt makes a face but laughs. “Juicy fruit.”

“You are a wonder.”

“Gee thanks,” Matt says drily. “I feel like I’m in the circus.”

“Think Karen will want to be the lion tamer?” Foggy asks. “I guess that leaves me with the clown role.”

“Keeping with the family tradition,” Matt jokes, referencing Foggy’s once-removed great-uncle Jim. “Very honorable.”

“They wanted me to be a butcher, but I followed my dreams all the way to clown college.”

Matt laughs, loud and carefree, and Foggy can’t help but to join in.

As they quiet, Foggy says, “You know it’s okay to want help sometimes, right?”

“I don’t need it.”

“I know, Beyoncé. You’re all about being Miss Independent—” This startles a laugh out of Matt, cutting through his sobered mood— “but seriously, you don’t have to go it alone all the time.”

There’s a pause. Foggy lets Matt gather his thoughts. 

Finally, Matt says, “You’re right. I suppose a part of me still isn’t used to having family to lean on. For a long while, it was just me, you know?”

What Foggy would give to have known Matt sooner.

“Well, you have us, now,” Foggy says. “Turning left. And I’m here to stay.”

Matt hums.

Foggy side-eyes him. “You get that by now, right?”

A moment of pause persists. Then: “I can hear that you’re not lying.”

“I’m not,” Foggy agrees, and he stops them in front of the store. “We’re here.” He turns to Matt, putting a hand on his shoulder as he says, “It’s like you said: we’re family. And nothing’s going to change that. 

Matt swallows, nodding.

“Good,” Foggy says. Then, his tone changing to an ironic seriousness: “Peach time.”

“I understand that meme reference.”

Foggy’s the one who described it for him in the first place. 

“I’m glad you remembered the important stuff from our time at Columbia.”

“Summa cum laude,” Matt reminds him. 

They head into the store, making a beeline for the peaches. “Buddy, if memes were graded, I’d be Salutatorian.”

“Not Valedictorian?”

Foggy shrugs. “Just being realistic.”

“Way to dream big, Fogs.”

He sets Matt free at the peach stand, watching him hold each one close to his nose before either shaking his head and tossing it back or smiling and handing it off to Foggy. Foggy probably should have gotten a bag ready in advance; by the time Matt’s finally satisfied, Foggy’s arms are full and he has a very dubious hold on their wares. He directs Matt to the produce bags then places them in—gently, after Matt scolds him.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Matt says as they walk away from the peaches and towards the refrigerated section. “We should put sprinkles on the cake. You know, a couple.”

“A _couple_ sprinkles? What, like two?” Foggy mocks in jest.

Matt snorts, shoving Foggy’s shoulder with his own. “You know what I mean. Just not a ton. Some,” he corrects.

This one’s hilarious. “Do I even need to say what’s wrong with this? Matt, do you even like the taste of sprinkles?”

“You’re sighted,” Matt says, in a tone of voice to imply that Foggy’s the idiot weirdo here. “And so is Karen.”

“Right, and you’re not.” Regardless, Foggy turns them down the baking aisle.

Matt rolls his eyes so hard, it draws Foggy’s attention from the corner of his eye.

“I’m clearly getting nowhere,” Matt says, shaking his head. “It’ll look cool, okay? You think I can’t be artistic just because I’m blind?”

“It’s cake with sprinkles, Matt, not the Mona Lisa.”

“For shame,” Matt continues, ignoring Foggy.

Foggy laughs, stopping them in front of the small array of sprinkles. “Okay, DaVinci, there’s sprinkles at your twelve o’clock. It looks like there’s five different kinds on that same row. Do you want me to describe them for you?”

Matt hums, reaching out to feel for the different canisters. “No, let’s do it at random,” he decides with a smirk. “Just don’t let me buy anything absurdly expensive.”

“They’re all pretty reasonably priced.”

He watches Matt inspect each can of sprinkles in his own way, smelling and shaking and making occasional comments.

“This one has a different shape,” he points out at one point, and Foggy nods.

“Right. Those one’s are stars.”

Matt nods once before putting that one back, reaching for another.

“Ugh, ew,” he says about it, wrinkling his nose and putting it back immediately. “This is the cheapest one.”

Foggy checks the price and laughs. “Correct again. Smell bad?”

“So chemically,” he says. He points to the remaining ones and says, “So, we have chocolate and I’m guessing two rainbow.”

Matt’s right on the money.

“What can I say? You have skills.”

Shrugging, though obviously pleased to have been correct, Matt picks up one of the rainbow ones.

Foggy says grandly, “The artist has selected his medium.” Then, more normal-voiced, “I can take that, if you want.”

“Thanks.”

Foggy probably should have gotten a basket: between the peaches and sprinkles, then the eggs, butter, and milk, their juggling act actually rises to circus level.

They head to check out, and the nice lady compliments his hair, a blush rising on her cheeks. She has beautiful curly hair and brown eyes, so Foggy gives her his best smile and a compliment back. 

She’s sweet, a little shy. She asks them what they do—both of them, which is a plus; Matt normally either gets attention for his looks or a cold-shoulder for his blindness, with very little inbetween—and Foggy opens his mouth to respond before Matt cuts in:

“We’re partners.” He grabs Foggy’s far shoulder to pull him into a sideways hug before sliding the hand back across his back and down his near arm, landing in Foggy’s hand. “We own a law firm together.”

Matt’s holding Foggy’s hand. And it’s not like they haven’t held hands before, though they usually were always drunk when Matt wanted to be guided like that, but...

The lady blinks at their connected hands for a moment before blushing again. “Good for you!” she says in spite of her blush. “You must be very happy together.”

Foggy’s mouth drops into an “o”, but before he can clarify the situation and snag a date, she hands them their receipt, and suddenly Matt’s guiding Foggy out of the store. 

Mouth still open, Foggy’s not sure whether he should laugh or feel offended. 

“You’re fired as a wingman,” he jokes, settling for an odd mixture of both. He closes the gap between them, taking back up the lead as they make it through the doors.

“Oh, was she flirting?” Matt asks, though his voice is translucent, faint and without conviction.

“Yes. She was.” Foggy pauses for a moment before, unable to resist, asking, “Did you just cockblock me?”

Matt’s hand twitches in his. 

Foggy lets out a breath, clenching his teeth. “Plead the fifth,” he suggests, since the silence already gave him his answer. 

“Yeah,” Matt says. And he doesn’t elaborate beyond that. 

“So, what was wrong with her?” Foggy asks after a brief silence. “Does she make her cereal with the milk first or something?”

Because certainly there must have been something that Matt was sensing that would make him cut it short. He’s always been a good wingman...unless all those times were lies. Foggy’s eyes widen.

Laughing shortly, Matt says, “I can’t tell that.” He pauses. Then, hesitantly, he says, “She seemed nice.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s why I was flirting with her.”

“Sorry,” Matt says. “You’re right: I cockblocked you.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, shortly. “Why?”

After a moment of silence, he looks back to see Matt looking uber constipated. 

Then, in a gust of releasing breath, Matt pushes out, “I was jealous.” He takes a breath and, more calmly, continues, “I’m sorry.”

“Wow.”

So Matt’s a bit of a diva. Foggy knew this already. He guesses he can’t always ask his friend to be happy for him when he gets hit on, even though that feels like a perfectly reasonable expectation. It’s not like he doesn’t get his lion’s share of attention from men and women and literally anybody with eyes, after all.

They spend the next block walking in silence. Then Foggy drags them inside the next liquor store. 

Clearly confused yet still following along, Matt asks, “What are we…?” 

“Wine,” Foggy explains as he holds the door for Matt. He attempts a smile. “To go with our cake.”

Matt nods slowly. “A nice chardonnay should pair well,” he offers.

“Chardonnay it is.”

He picks up one that he remembers his mom serving at dinner a few months before and holds it out for Matt to smell. “This one okay?”

“It smells good.”

“Perfect.”

Matt’s quiet as Foggy pays, and he’s quiet as they exit the store. Eventually, he hedges, “Foggy…”

“Matt, it’s fine.” He needs more time to process this. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s not.” His grip on Foggy’s hand tightens—because they’re still holding hands; Foggy wouldn’t pull away, even when he felt like he probably should have. “I’m horrible.”

Foggy squeezes his hand once, heart clenching at the knowledge that he’s telling the truth. He really does think these things. 

“Matt, you’re fine. Really. It’s not a big deal.”

Foggy keeps pushing them towards Matt’s apartment, and they’re so close, but he notices Matt’s hand growing sweatier, a little shakier, and he opens his mouth to change the subject, but when he looks back he sees Matt’s chest moving quickly.

Shit.

Foggy feels his heart jump in his chest. 

“Shit,” he says out loud, crossing in front of Matt to pull him sideways, into the tiny crack between storefronts. “Matt, are you okay?”

“I’m good,” Matt says, but it comes out garbled, voice wavering like a scratchy record. 

“No, you’re not. I’m going to hug you, okay?”

He pulls the wine out of Matt’s other hand, grateful for the paper bag when he puts it on the dirty, too-moist-for-comfort ground, setting their grocery bag down after. Then he wraps his arms around Matt, rubbing his back and steadying his own breathing so that his slow, deep breaths contrast against Matt’s rabbit-fast, shallow ones. 

“Come on, buddy, breathe,” he encourages, falling back into their routine from law school. “You can do it.”

“I ruin ever-ything,” Matt gets out, chest spasming. 

“You don’t. You do good every day, Matty.” He keeps rubbing Matt’s back with one hand, the other cupping the back of his head. 

He feels Matt shake his head. 

“I mean it,” Foggy continues. “You give so much of yourself for this city, just because you want to help. You’re amazing.”

Matt’s words come out jumbled, but Foggy makes them out: “You’re the mechanic.”

Foggy laughs. “Exactly. You beat up bad guys and I fix the neighbor’s heater. It all evens out. Nelson and Murdock and also Page: saviors of the city. And really, it’s okay. I’m not mad.”

He can tell Matt’s making an effort to match their breathing, so he keeps talking in his ear, reassurances and encouragements and occasional terrible jokes that don’t really make sense but that Matt fakes a chuckle at anyway. 

Eventually, Matt pulls away, taking off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I am very embarrassed, but it sucks having to go through that alone.”

“Do you still get panic attacks often?” 

Matt kicks out gently to locate the wine, picking it up once he’s found it, so Foggy bends down for the grocery bag. He retakes Matt’s hand, squeezing it once, and Matt squeezes back, offering an awkward smile. 

“Sometimes,” he admits. “It’s not so bad.”

Foggy rolls his eyes fondly. “You think a knife wound ‘isn’t so bad.’”

“Sometimes they aren’t,” Matt defends, in spite of the fact that nothing will convince Foggy that knife wounds are normal and anything less than a big deal. 

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

Foggy doesn’t feel awkward on the walk home, but he knows that Matt does, so he offers up the first conversational topic he can think of:

“Whalewolf versus Sharktopus: go!”

Matt barks out a baffled laugh. “I’m sorry, you said _Whalewolf_?”

“Ah, the uninitiated. Picture a wolf but with some shark-like features.”

“Why isn’t it Sharkwolf, then?”

Foggy hushes him. 

Matt breathes a second laugh as he steps through the door of his apartment building. Regardless of his clear disconnect from the topic, he says, “Sharktopus sounds more dangerous.”

“Whalewolf can go on land, though,” Foggy points out. “And it has claws.”

Unfairly, Matt continues talking as they walk up the stairs, and he doesn’t even sound out of breath because of it. 

Damn it. Foggy’s getting old.

“Firstly, there’s no need to take the fight to the land. Secondly, please clarify: how big are the claws?”

“They’re about normal wolf-sized.”

Matt’s quiet, pondering this for a moment, probably thinking back to remember how big wolves’ claws generally are.

“Sharktopus,” he says decisively. “Those tentacles are no joke. And the teeth.”

Laughing out the last of his air, Foggy takes a second to catch his breath as they near Matt’s floor before saying, “You make some good points. I still think Whalewolf will fight a good fight.”

“Sure,” Matt says agreeably. “I mean, there’s a whole movie about it, right?”

Matt pulls out his keys and unlocks the door to his apartment as Foggy says, “I think I know what we’re watching tonight.”

Matt groans, but the grin on his face doesn’t lie. “Why can’t we watch a normal movie?”

“Pfft, what’s the fun in that?”

They toe off their shoes then make their way back to the kitchen.

“You still down to bake a cake?” Foggy asks. He knows how draining panic attacks can be.

After thinking it over for a moment, Matt says, “After a cup of coffee, I’ll be good.”

While Matt gets his coffee started, Foggy pulls the recipe back up, gathering ingredients from around the kitchen.

Foggy starts getting bowls and whisks together and looks towards the sink just as Matt rolls up his sleeves and moves to wash the dishes from breakfast. Sometimes, Foggy thinks maybe Matt really can read minds.

“So, how do you want to do this?” Foggy asks. “Do you want to be my sous chef, or would you prefer to start on the buttercream?”

Matt hums, tilting his head as he thinks it over. “I’ll do the buttercream.”

Foggy opens up a couple more drawers, eventually saying, “Matt, do you not own an electric mixer?”

“...Do we need one?”

With a disbelieving laugh, Foggy says, “It would be helpful! You want to mix hard butter?”

“...Can’t we just melt it?”

“No, Matt,” Foggy says, defeated. “We can’t.” He laughs. “We can probably soften it, though. Don’t worry, we can switch if your arm gets tired.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

He’s telling Foggy. Even through long sleeves, those arms don’t lie. Foggy eyes his biceps then his exposed forearms appreciatively.

“If you say so,” he sings, snagging a dish rag from its place on the oven to dry the mixing bowl as Matt finishes with it, leaving the rest of the dishes on the drying rack to be dealt with later. 

“I can’t believe you own powdered sugar but no electric mixer.”

Matt tosses him a smirk. “I’m pretty sure the powdered sugar was yours.”

Foggy feels like he can vaguely remember that. He shrugs. “Regardless.”

“Add it to my Christmas list.”

“Ah, yes, Matt’s famous Christmas list, featuring classics such as socks, batteries, and an electric mixer. At least you’re getting more creative.”

Matt turns off the faucet then flicks water at him. Foggy starts discreetly twisting up the towel.

“I stand by my previous asks. Socks and batteries are both useful and r—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, jumping back just as Foggy snaps the towel at him, cracking like a whip. He takes another step back when Foggy does it again, but he catches the towel on its third strike, pulling it from Foggy’s hands and holding it for a moment. Then he throws it, and it lands limply on Foggy’s chest. 

“No fair,” Foggy claims in good fun. He swings the towel onto his shoulder. “You had access to ninja training not provided to me.”

“It wasn’t ninja training,” Matt corrects with a laugh. “Besides, you wouldn’t want it.”

“Semantics,” Foggy says, waving his hands. He cracks his knuckles then picks his phone up off the counter, scrolling to the buttercream section. “Okay, buttercream expert—” Matt snorts— “it looks like all you have to do is mix the stuff together.”

“That’s all baking really is, huh?”

“Don’t let my mom hear you say that. Okay, so you can soften the butter, but you should beat that first and then add the powdered sugar. It’s two sticks of butter then four-and-a-half cups of powdered sugar.”

“Good God.”

“Don’t go all health-nut on me now, Murdock.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Foggy lays out and describes the positioning of the kitchen tools while Matt microwaves his butter, moving on to start on the cake batter, looking between the ingredients and the recipe on his phone.

“What temperature do you need the oven at? Three-fifty?”

“Oh, good call.” Foggy scrolls around. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

They start in on their parts of the baking, and Foggy throws on a classic rock playlist after a minute. 

It doesn’t take long for them to hear a familiar piano intro.

They both freeze, turning their heads towards each other.

“I am raising my eyebrows so high,” Foggy says as he does it. 

Matt copies it back, nodding his head to the beat. 

“Turn around,” the sing together before Foggy takes up the lead, singing Bonnie Tyler’s parts while Matt sings the background “turn around”s, keeping it semi-normal, continuing to stir their ingredients up to the chorus, when Matt bangs the butter off his whisk, using it as a microphone.

They come together to sing the chorus back to back before facing each other for the tender post-chorus, making appropriate longing hand motions until the instrumental comes up, and they come together in a pseudo-ballroom dancing-tango combination.

It goes better than it normally does—although they do normally only dance when inebriated, so that might play a part in it.

“I’m dipping you,” Matt says out of nowhere, and Foggy has just a half second to process that before he’s being spun off balance, a slightly less than manly “Eep!” falling past his lips.

And then he’s dangling just feet from the floor, held in Matt’s arms like something out of his wet dreams, one arm wrapped around Matt’s neck, the other digging it’s nails into his bicep.

And Matt isn’t even struggling. He’s strong enough to hold Foggy—no small feat, but he does it with that smug smile, and Foggy wants to kiss it off of him.

He opens his mouth to yell at him, but then the lyrics start back up and he’s being lifted back to his feet, and he’s too busy singing background so Matt can belt the more complicated lyrics to dish out any other words.

The trade in parts is how they’ve always sung it, ever since their first karaoke, before Foggy knew all the lyrics.

“What can I say? My hearing’s spectacular,” Matt said in explanation when Foggy asked, and he winked with it, and now that he’s thinking back and gets it, Foggy wants to shove him, wants to shove his tongue in his mouth—wants, wants, wants—

They come back together for the final post-chorus, Matt spinning Foggy slowly, and it’s probably beyond the point of “guys being dudes,” but Foggy wants to take this moment and wear it like a blanket because it’s the closest he might get to his person, his closest friend.

They keep stepping on each other’s feet, and their voices are scratchy and off-tone. Their dancing is just on the wrong side of off-beat. And it’s perfect.

The most perfectly imperfect moment with his most perfectly imperfect person.

The song comes to an end, and they’re still holding hands.

But to Matt, this is just what friends do.

Foggy pulls away, tucking his hair back behind his ears as he catches his breath.

“Interesting move in the middle there,” he says, and while Matt’s smirk doesn’t go away, it fades down at one corner.

“Too much?”

Foggy breathes a laugh. “Maybe a little.” He rubs the back of his neck, saying, “But I didn’t mind it. You could probably smell that, or something.”

Matt laughs, and the sound fills the room. “I thought I was getting yelled at for a second there.”

“Oh, it was close.”

Matt nods, wide grin still splitting across his face. “I think we should take dance classes,” he says. “Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?”

Foggy laughs. “It does. Maybe you could make it a date with Karen.”

Matt’s still into her, right?

Matt just shakes his head. “She can come, too. But I want to go with you.”

And that’s the truth, huh?

“Aw, buddy. That would be fun. Let’s plan something out.”

Pleased, Matt nods once. “I’ve already looked into it,” he says, where regular Matt probably would have lied. “There’s a place nearby that seems promising. We could do early Saturday mornings, but—“

“But you’re up late every Friday,” Foggy finishes, and Matt’s smile only widens. “Plus, Saturday mornings are for sleep and cartoons.”

“Exactly! So that leaves weekdays, mostly, and we could make it happen for after work, as long as we plan to get out on time.”

Matt’s given this thought. Of course, he gives everything thought, doesn’t he?

“Plan it out,” Foggy says. “Just tell me when and I’ll be there.”

“It’s a date.”

If only.

Foggy mosies back to his cake batter, seeing Matt reclaim his microphone to whip the buttercream.

“This hurts really badly,” Matt says after a minute, nodding to his arm, which is still whipping the buttercream at terminal velocity.

Foggy drops his own whisk. “Matt! Is that the crowbar arm?”

Laughing and nodding, Matt is infuriating.

Foggy rushes over, covering Matt’s hands with his own as he says, “Is that why you’re wearing long sleeves? Stop moving it; we’ll switch.”

“I’m fine, Foggy. I was just kidding.”

“Has the drug worn off?”

“...Ye-ess?”

Foggy’s forehead finds his hand. 

By some miracle, Foggy does manage to convince Matt to switch places. As Foggy finishes up the buttercream, Matt sips coffee in one hand, spraying some non-stick in a baking pan then pouring in the batter after. 

Leaning back against the counter and licking buttercream off the finger of one hand, Foggy watches Matt slide the cake batter into the oven before reclaiming his coffee, savoring his next sip. 

So here’s the dilemma in all of this: today has been great—he’s gotten to spend it all with Matt, with no cases or crimes to stop them—but a piece of him knows that this isn’t his normal Matt. It’s something in the awkwardness, in the slightly-too-loud laughs. It’s the information offered, emotionally available and honest. 

And he loves Matt, he always has, so he loves Matt like this just as much as normal Matt.

But a piece of him feels like it’s on eggshells, loath to lead them to a conversational place Matt will regret later.

Then again, this is still Matt. He’s drugged, but he’s not particularly what’s classically known as “under the influence.” In fact, if Matt hadn’t told him, Foggy’s not sure he ever would have known something is off. 

In the end, the main question on the table is in regard to agency. Is Matt able to make decisions for himself? If Foggy leads the conversation in a direction convenient for himself, is he taking advantage? 

Foggy asks himself these questions, despite there being no definitive answers. He remembers loving ethics class, with its ever-debatable hypotheticals.

Turns out the real version is slightly less fun.

Foggy hums as he considers his next words. He doesn’t want to take advantage, and he doesn’t want to ruin their good moods, but he did say he would circle back. He decides to leave it up to Matt.

“Hey,” he says, and he steps over to the sink to wash the frosting residue off his hands. “So, I wanted to talk for a minute about something you said earlier.”

Matt’s face is open, an easy smile stuck on it. “Go for it.”

“Hmm, here’s the thing: you’re still feeling compelled to be honest about everything—right?” Matt nods. “Okay. Well, I don’t want to take advantage of you here, so I need you to be honest right now: do you want to talk, or should we save it for later?”

Letting out a slow breath, Matt takes a moment to sip on his coffee. Then he pushes away from the counter to walk over to the kitchen table, taking his seat from earlier. He puts his head in one hand, considering before he says:

“You know, I really do try to be honest with you regardless; I just have all the more reason to now. I like talking with you, Foggy. Let’s talk. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Foggy steps over to the table, saying, “See, that’s what I don’t want to hear. The Matt I know avoids uncomfortable questions at all costs. I’m smirking right now.”

Matt breathes a laugh, saying, “That’s fair. How about this: if you ask something I really don’t think I should answer, I’ll pass on it.”

“And that won’t freak you out too much?”

While he doesn’t quite understand the extent of this truth serum, it’s clear that it increases Matt’s anxiety tenfold.

“I’ll survive.”

Foggy nods. “Okay, first one: do you want to play Old Maid?”

Matt barks out a laugh. “Sure, why not?”

Grinning, Foggy stands up to walk over to the shelf where Matt keeps his games, picking up their deck of Old Maid that Foggy snatched from his gram’s house one Thanksgiving break, during their first or second year. After labeling each card using the braille labeler they found online (and a lot of swearing at trying to make said braille labeler actually work), they suddenly had a perfectly accessible game of Old Maid. 

Foggy sits back down and starts shuffling the cards. They’re big, clearly from a game marketed towards children, so rather than riffling it like regular cards, he just mixes them up overhand, pulling a few from one end towards the other and randomly halving it here or there. 

“Again, just say the word if you want to stop and pick up tomorrow.” Matt shoots him a thumbs-up and Foggy nods. “Cool. Earlier, you said you have a lot of problems. I was wondering if you want to talk about that.”

“I would like to talk, yes,” Matt says immediately. Foggy looks up from his dealing. “The issue is that I feel like I can’t. Or, rather, that I shouldn’t.”

“Why is that?”

Matt hums. “It makes me feel guilty.” Matter-of-factly, he continues, “I probably have an anxiety disorder.”

Foggy’s eyebrows raise. He pushes one set of cards towards Matt then looks over his own, pulling out the matches and glaring at the old maid. “You think so?”

Matt shrugs as he starts to feel the braille on his cards. “It’s something I’ve considered for a while. I just worry so much. About everything.”

Nodding along, Foggy turns his hand out to offer his cards, saying, “That does sound like you.”

“Doesn’t it?” Matt’s hand feels across Foggy’s cards, touching the old maid for a second before moving away and selecting a different card. “Not that knowing changes anything. You know how I am with medication.”

Foggy picks from Matt’s hand, getting his match, then says, “You said it makes your senses harder to understand?”

With a nod, Matt says, “More or less.” Foggy moves around some of his cards before offering his hand to Matt. Again, Matt only briefly goes near the old maid, quickly moving far away from it. “Most of the ones that I’ve tried, anyway. They just make it a bit more difficult to focus. I pretend that it isn’t true, but my grasp on the world is tentative at best.” He offers out his hand. “It’s very easy for something to knock me off balance. That’s why aids like my cane, braille, you guiding me—they’re all necessary, as much as Stick always said they weren’t.”

Foggy picks a card, matches it, then offers out his own.

Matt skips the old maid _again_.

“You’re cheating, aren’t you?”

Matt grins. “Not my fault. Your heart gets very excited when I go near it.”

Foggy groans. Next turn he’ll mix them up so even he doesn’t know where she is. 

“Let me get this straight,” he says after a moment. “Your mentor, Stick, told you your cane is unnecessary?”

Matt nods. “And again, I could probably get by without it, so he’s not overly wrong. I’d just prefer not to trip on everything.” 

“You can’t hear cracks in the road?” Foggy teases, grinning when he discovers Matt’s taken the old maid. 

With a laugh, Matt says, “Not really, no. I know you and Karen think I’m some magician, but I don’t know everything. Could I do it? Yeah, probably. But it would involve a lot of focus and clicking at the ground, and I’d prefer not to give the city that show.”

“On the bright side, this is New York,” Foggy points out. “Hardly the strangest thing they’ll have seen that day.”

“You’re right on that one.” 

Of course, Foggy ends up with the old maid yet again. He bets Matt’s using his psychology degree to predict where Foggy’s most likely to select from, or some such shit.

Foggy taps the table with his free hand as he thinks. He has a question; he just doesn’t quite know how to word it. 

“This Stick guy,” he starts, “what was he like? Tell me more about him. You mention him a lot.”

“He had a very important impact on my life,” Matt says. He feels around his cards as he continues, “Everything I can do… It’s because of him. Before he came around, I couldn’t make any sense of my surroundings; it was just noise and smells and tastes coming at me from all directions. He helped me learn how to piece it all together.”

“And the ninja training was a part of that?”

“Yeah, I suppose. It was all connected; I had to use all of my senses to fight, so it was the perfect way to practice.”

“But it wasn’t all for you,” Foggy clarifies. “You said he wanted you to be his ‘soldier’?” He finger-quotes around the word, eyebrows furrowed.

“Right,” Matt says. “He had his own motivations for training me.” His smile slips as he says: “We...had different goals for our sessions.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

It comes down to the wire, Foggy having a fifty-percent chance at pulling the old maid from Matt’s hand. He manages to win the game, selecting the match, and Matt shoots him a victory thumbs-up before handing over his cards for Foggy to re-shuffle.

“He wanted somebody for his war. I wanted a dad.” Foggy’s breath stutters. “I still wish I had my dad back. Sorry to be depressing.”

“You’re not depressing. You can talk about whatever you want.”

“I know, I just worry.” He sighs. “I don’t mean to take things for granted, but I wish… I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair then says, “I’ve always felt so different. I mean—” He laughs— “Look at me. I’m a blind orphan mutate.”

Foggy’s never heard Matt call himself a human-mutate before. They’ve avoided discussions regarding the mutant-mutate debate since Foggy found out about his powers.

“You’re more than just labels, Matt.” 

He lets out a slow breath. “That doesn’t mean they don’t define me. I can’t change who I am.”

“Do you want to?”

Foggy starts dealing out the cards.

“I’d like to have my dad back. It’s been nearly twenty years, but I still miss him a lot. I wish he could see what I’ve done with myself, and… I’d like him to know about me.”

“He’d be proud of you,” Foggy tells him, with conviction. “I’m sure of it.”

Matt turns his head up to face Foggy, offering a soft smile. “Thank you. I’ll try to believe you.”

Taking in a breath, Foggy opens his mouth to say more but ultimately closes it, leaving it at that.

They look over their cards in quiet for a moment.

“Stick was harsh,” Matt says as he offers out his cards. Foggy takes his time selecting one, loath to snag the old maid and focusing on Matt’s words. “He didn’t like when it took me a while to learn something, or when I’d get tired or want to stop.”

He reaches out for Foggy’s cards, continuing, “We would train for hours, most days. No breaks for water.” He laughs humorlessly. “Soldier’s don’t need water, apparently. News to me. No breaks in general, now that I think about it. Sometimes we’d go for the whole night.”

“He sounds strict,” Foggy says, shaking his head. “You were just a kid.”

They keep playing. “He didn’t treat me like one. But I liked that. People treat me like I’m made of glass because I’m blind. Stick didn’t care about that. I couldn’t see them, but I was always covered in bruises from sparring. I sprained my wrist, cracked ribs, twisted my ankle, broke fingers—he didn’t give a shit. ‘Get up. Keep going. The mind controls the body.’”

“Matt…”

Matt shakes his head. “On anybody else, I’d call it child abuse. But because it was me, I should’ve been stronger.

Foggy swallows. “But you see the contradiction there.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Foggy reaches out, squeezing one of Matt’s hands with his own. He catches a glimpse of the old maid in the process and debates whether now’s a bad time for cheating. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“I’m a better person because of it.”

“And that’s all you. You realize that, right? You’re the one who managed to pull good from it.”

Matt’s mouth moves to the side, unsure. “Maybe.” He takes a breath, face going pale. “There’s something else.”

Foggy squeezes his hand once more, and Matt sets down his cards to interconnect their fingers. Foggy puts his own cards down shortly after. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Matt squeezes his hand back. “I… I don’t know if I want to keep it secret anymore. You’re very intelligent. I think you could help me make sense of it.”

“I just don’t want you telling me something you’ll regret later.”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately, I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up... Sometimes, um. Sometimes I’d hear things—intimate things—”

“People having sex,” Foggy surmises, and Matt nods.

“Exactly. When it’d happen during training, Stick, uh. He would have me listen, even though I didn’t want to, and—” He takes a breath, and Foggy tightens the grip on his hand, heart beating fast.

Matt continues, “And he made me describe it to him. Called it training. I felt so sick. There was this pit in my stomach, like I was rotting inside, and I just remember feeling so confused every time, and so dirty.” His voice grows hoarse towards the end, and Foggy squeezes his eyes shut to hold in the tears. 

“Matt…” Foggy says gently. “You’re a lawyer. You know what happened.”

“I—it was training, he—”

“Buddy… That was sexual abuse.”

“No…” Matt pulls his hand away, pushing it in front of his mouth while the other finds his hair. “No, no, no.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

Face hidden in his hands, Matt shudders out a breath. “God.”

Foggy stands up, walking around the table to stand behind Matt, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” Matt says immediately. “It feels nice. I—thank you, Foggy.”

“I’m here for you. Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening. I suppose a part of me always knew, but…”

“Your mind was protecting you. Until you were ready.”

Matt nods. 

Foggy leans in to hug him from behind. 

“There’s something I haven’t told you about, either,” he says, and Matt stiffens beneath him, turning his head up and to the side to face Foggy. “I get it. I had a creepy uncle.”

Matt pulls in a breath, pulling off Foggy’s arms to stand up out of his chair, spinning around. He looks devastated as he says, “Foggy, no…”

Foggy smiles, a small, ironic thing. “Yeah,” he says. “It was just one time, but...yeah.” He leans against Matt’s chair, elbows supporting him. “We were playing hide-n-seek, and he said, ‘Next time I find you, I’m going to take your clothes off.’ It was just like you said: I was so confused. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t even hide well, you would be ashamed.” Matt doesn’t laugh at the attempt at a joke. Foggy sighs then finishes, “And then he did. He looked me over and said ‘Nice,’ and I felt—just completely disgusting.”

“How old were you?” Matt asks hesitantly.

Foggy pauses as he thinks. “Eleven. I was eleven.”

“God, Fogs. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Foggy shakes his head, shrugging. “I wasn’t sure how to, and… Don’t be upset about this, but you already go through so much; I didn’t want to put anything more on your shoulders.”

Matt makes a hurt noise. “You can tell me anything. You’re always here for me. I want to be here for you.”

“I understand that.” Foggy stands up straight, pushing a smile on his face. “Tell you what: you agree to be more open about your problems with me, and I promise to do the same.”

Matt sticks his hand out. “It’s a deal.”

Foggy grasps it with a grin, and they shake on it. 

Matt ends up pulling Foggy into a hug, an appreciated gesture that Matt rarely initiates, so it’s a true treat. 

‘I should have talked about my trauma sooner,’ he thinks, but he doesn’t think Matt will find it funny, so he keeps the joke on the inside. 

They pull apart, giving each other manly pats on the back, and reclaim their seats, picking their old maid cards back up. 

“That felt unexpectedly good to talk about,” Matt says, and Foggy nods in agreement, narrating it shortly after. 

“I should say: I saw the old maid earlier. You should mix up your cards,” he admits.

Matt’s mouth drops, though he grins. “Now who’s the cheater, huh?”

“Hey, I’m fessing up. I feel like I deserve a lighter sentence.”

“No deal, counselor.” 

When Foggy pulls his next card, of course it’s the old maid. Damn it. 

They play a couple more rounds before moving on to Yahtzee, using the bumped dice Matt’s owned since forever.

“Did I ever tell you?” he asks as he shakes them up. “My dad got me these dice. It was my first Christmas after the accident. He wanted a game we could still play together.”

Foggy hums, watching Matt feel the dice and consider which he’s going to keep and which he’ll re-roll. “That’s really sweet. Did you play a lot of Yahtzee then?”

“Not too much, but maybe once a week. We played chess, too. That one was a bit trickier to get the hang of.”

“I still don’t get how you manage to remember all of that.”

Matt shrugs, his smile charming as ever. “It’s not so hard. You can do it, too. Just paint a picture in your mind. It’s easier when the stuff in your mind is the only thing you can see, I guess.”

Foggy chuckles at that. “I suppose that makes sense.”

He rolls the rest of his dice, and Foggy cheers when Matt gets his large straight. Foggy’s already managed two Yahtzees, so the game has been over since the jump. They keep playing for fun anyway, primarily competing to see who will end up getting the bonus up top. Matt gets his while Foggy misses it by a hair. 

They pull the cake out of the oven, and Foggy leaves it in the fridge to cool faster so they can finally frost and decorate it. 

After getting that settled, they decide to pack it in, relaxing at the table, Matt with a fresh cup of coffee and Foggy with a glass of water. 

“Do you ever think about the future?” Foggy finds himself asking at one point. “I mean, I never really imagined what comes after this. You know? It was always college then law school. I almost didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Matt frowns at him. “Come on, now,” he says. “You’re the smartest person I know. Don’t undersell yourself.”

“Thank you, but you know what I mean. That was really the extent of what I planned for. Sometimes I wonder what the next big step is.”

Nodding along, Matt says, “I get it. I was always the same way. Now it’s small goals, like getting a better sign for the office, or taking down a new arms-dealing ring.”

Foggy bursts out a laugh when he realizes Matt’s serious about that last part. “I wouldn’t say that one’s small, but okay, buddy.”

“You’re right; finally getting that sign would be quite the feat.” 

Foggy shakes his head at him. 

“What are some of your new goals?” Matt asks seriously, leaning in.

Tapping his chin, Foggy hums. “It’s still pretty far off, but I feel like I’m getting to that age. I’d really like to settle down. Have a kid or two.”

Matt smiles, letting out a small sigh. “We’ve never talked about this before, have we?”

“I’m shaking my head. No, I don’t think so. Maybe once; I’m pretty sure we were drunk.”

With a tilt of his head, Matt says, “I think I can remember that. You have a special someone in mind?”

“Nope,” Foggy says, and Matt’s smile twitches.

“You know that I know you’re lying.”

Shit.

Matt continues, “Can I ask who it is? Karen? Marcy? Brett?”

Foggy chokes on his own spit, coughing into his elbow. “Brett?” he asks incredulously, once he manages to suck in the air. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“So it’s not him?”

“It’s not any of them, Matt. Do you have somebody you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” Matt says immediately, and, well, that’s great news. It’s dandy. Good for him. “I mean no. I mean—we’re talking about you here; don’t change the subject.”

Foggy rolls his eyes. “How about we move on and let us both have our secrets.”

Matt takes a moment to think this over, and his interest must be good if he needs to think it over this hard. 

“Fine. Deal.”

“Deal.” Foggy picks up his glass and takes a sip, saying after he’s set it down, “So, what about you? Any hopes for kids?”

Relaxing again, Matt nods. He swallows, one hand cupping the back of his neck as he says, “I always thought I’d like to adopt. It comes with its own set of difficulties, but it would be worth it, I think.”

“You don’t want to have your own? Carry on the Murdock bloodline?”

Matt shakes his head. “There’s more to family than just blood.”

“I agree with you there. Adopting is a great idea. It’s something I’ve always considered, too.” 

It’s something he mainly started looking into after meeting Matt, but Foggy doesn’t have to tell him that. 

Matt nods before he seems to deflate a little, smile turning sad.

“Aw, what’s the face for, Murdock?”

Pushing his lips together, Matt mopes for an extra moment then says, “I don’t know if kids are the best option for me. I don’t think I could keep what I do a secret, and I don’t want to teach them bad habits. And the danger…”

Matt looks like he’s going down a rabbit hole, so Foggy fishes him out, saying, “Hey, now, don’t over think it. We all have our anxieties about it; you know, they say you’ll never be fully ready. I think you could make it work.”

With just a blossom of hope, Matt asks, “Do you really think so?”

“Sure. You won’t be going it alone. And don’t forget you’ll always have uncle Foggy there to help you out.”

Matt smiles. “I’d like that.” 

“Right? Our kids will be best friends. It’ll be great.” He checks the time then says, “I think the cake should be cooled enough by now. Let’s see if we can frost it.”

After giving the buttercream one final stir, they’re ready to start. Foggy lets Matt do the honors, up until the point where he realizes Matt has no idea what he’s doing. 

Foggy stares incredulously at the novel star-shaped frosting method Matt’s invented with the spoon before saying, “Here, let me—” He taps Matt’s elbow before trailing his hand down, covering Matt’s with his own to guide him around the cake, his other hand pressed to Matt’s back. “Look, this is so much easier. Go in a circle, fanning it out as you go.” 

“Like this?” Matt asks, voice soft. 

Foggy’s breathless. “Yeah. You’re perfect.”

 _Fuck,_ he made this moment unexpectedly intimate. Time to abort. 

With his free hand, Foggy reaches around to pinch Matt’s cheek, drawing a short laugh from him. He lets go with a squeeze of Matt’s hand, saying, “I don’t know what you were doing before. It was an interesting method, I’ll give you that.”

Matt stops for a moment before continuing with the frosting, responding, “You really are your mother’s son. As long as it gets covered, why does it matter?”

“Presentation, Matthew! This way gets it nice and smooth.”

“Excuse me for trying to add some character,” Matt says, but Foggy knows he’s joking and probably appreciates being shown a new way to frost it. 

Foggy clears a place on the counter to sit down, watching Matt frost then decorate the cake with the sprinkles. 

Matt hums once he’s finishing up, holding one sprinkle in his hand and moving it around overtop the cake, debating where to set it down before dropping it. The lone sprinkle pings off another, bouncing to the floor. 

Foggy barely manages to hold in his snort. 

“Done,” Matt says. He presents the cake with his hands framing it like on Jeopardy. “What do you think?”

“Masterful artistry,” Foggy says. Matt gives him a pointed look and he continues, “Kidding, kidding. It looks good. You’re right: I like the sprinkles. They contrast well against the white buttercream.”

Matt nods, looking pleased with the description. 

Foggy hops down, saying, “Time for our movie?”

Matt groans. With a grin, he says, “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered?”

“Come on, Matt! We need to find out who wins the fight.”

Foggy’s the one who sets up the movie, shamelessly spending the two-ninety-nine to rent it with Matt’s Amazon account. After Matt gets back from the bathroom, he sits on the opposite end of the couch, and it’s only now that Foggy realizes how big Matt’s couch is, feet of space separating them.

Foggy jumps into a riveting and enthusiastic description of the movie as it starts up, ignoring Matt shifting around once, twice, three—okay, four—times, until not even ten minutes into the movie, he interrupts:

“Hey. Uh…”

Foggy stops descripting, though he leaves the movie playing as he looks over.

Matt’s playing with his hands as he says, “So, uh… Do you ever think about how things have changed since law school? Between us?”

Foggy “uhh”s, leaning over to grab the remote to turn down the volume. “Changed how?”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. We don’t really touch each other anymore.”

Foggy ignores the obvious joke, saying instead, “Did we touch a lot during law school?”

For him, the answer is no. For Matt:

“Yes. I mean, it was a lot for me. I’m very touch-starved, probably because the only people who have ever really hugged or touched me are you and my dad.”

Foggy’s chest grows tight at that. “We can hug more often, Matt. You know I’m a big teddy bear,” he jokes. 

Matt nods, eyebrows still drawn tight. “I would like that.”

“...But?” Foggy prompts.

“But…” Tense, Matt’s eyes shift like he’s considering running away before locking somewhere near Foggy, saying, “But I miss you. Which is weird because I’m right next to you, so I don’t understand why I do.”

“Come here.” Foggy gestures inwards, saying verbally instead of narrating it, “Scoot in. You probably just want to cuddle.”

“I—can we?” 

The fact that Matt looks genuinely unsure means Foggy hasn’t been doing his job right.

“Of course, silly goose.” Matt laughs at the phrase, scooting in closer. “I mean it when I say I’m a teddy bear. I love cuddling.”

Matt’s still hesitating, so once he’s in close enough range, Foggy grabs his shoulder, helping to pull him in. 

And, wow, Foggy forgot how good Matt is at cuddling.

He doesn’t need to see the TV, so Matt sprawls out, one leg wrapped overtop Foggy’s, the arm from the same side clinging to Foggy’s shoulder. Then he lays his head down on Foggy’s other shoulder, right by his neck. 

Foggy swallows. He wraps his arms around Matt, one to help support him and the other to draw circles in his back. 

“Comfy?” 

Matt _purrs_. “Yeah. You?”

“Very.”

They focus back in on the movie, and Foggy continues his description, keeping it quieter since Matt’s so close. 

Halfway through the movie, he politely ignores the half-boner he can feel poking against his leg. He knows how it is. They’re close, both physically and emotionally, and sometimes it just happens. 

Then he ignores the lips brushing against his neck, because, hey, Matt’s probably just falling asleep. No need to make assumptions.

But then the leg wrapped around Foggy’s pushes into the couch on the other side, and Matt sits up, completely straddling Foggy, and Foggy’s still trying to rationalize it, because maybe Matt’s just getting up. Maybe he’s—

And then Matt’s leaning in, and Foggy’s lips part in surprise, and then Matt’s _kissing_ him, and Foggy pushes into it because it’s Matt. 

He’s kissing Matt.

It’s everything that Foggy thought it would be—more—warm and soft and _home_ , and Foggy never wants it to end, but he pushes Matt away. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, and Matt’s unfocused eyes widen. 

“Um… Is it not obvious?”

Foggy nudges him, and Matt tilts off, landing to sit on the couch beside Foggy in the instant before Foggy stands up. 

“No, Matt. It’s not obvious. Do you want to use your words?”

Maybe he’s just—maybe—

“Sure. Foggy, I love you. May I kiss you again?”

“No.”

Matt flinches.

“Matt,” Foggy repeats, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to confess my undying love for you,” Matt says with a smirk, though his eyebrows are drawn together, nervous. “You feel the same way, don’t you?”

Foggy’s mouth is dropped open, and he makes no move to close it. “I—I can’t do this right now.”

“Foggy…” 

He starts for the door.

“Foggy!” Matt stands up, hands reaching out. “Don’t go, please.”

“What the hell? Why would you think I want this?”

Matt pales.

“No, not—” Foggy grabs at his hair with both hands, saying, “Matt, I love you, too, but—how long have you liked me back?”

“Years.”

God, Foggy is so stupid.

Matt continues, “I don’t understand. If you want me then why are you leaving?”

“Because, Matt! You don’t actually want me! The only reason you’re saying any of this is because of some stupid drug.”

Hands balling up into fists, Matt says, “Don’t do that. Don’t strip away my agency. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.”

“But why now, Matt? Don’t you get it?”

“We just spent the whole day together. What better time is there?”

“You never would have told me otherwise—”

You don’t know that—”

“You—”

“Foggy.” There’s a moment of quiet. Matt takes a breath. “Do you want this?”

In a release of breath, Foggy says quietly, “Yes.”

Matt smiles. “I do, too. I’m telling the truth right now: I was planning to ask you. You know, on a date. Ask Karen, if you need to; she was helping me work up the nerve.”

Foggy falls back against the door. “You were going to…”

Matt takes a step forward. “Yes.”

“You love me.”

Another step. Another “Yes.”

Matt smiles, reaching his hands out again. “I know I have a lot of issues.” He chuckles to himself. “I’m kind of a mess. But you’re my family. My heart. I love you, and I’ll do anything to try to be enough for you. Will you give us a try?”

Foggy’s heart beats on.

He takes Matt’s hand.

“Yes.”

————————

“This cake is great, guys,” Karen says the next day, mouth full. She grins, continuing, “The sprinkles are a fun touch. Are they for Pride?”

Matt and Foggy turn to each other. “Something like that,” Foggy says.

She looks between the two of them. “Wait,” she says, setting down her fork. “Matt, did you…”

Matt grins.

“No way. Wait, are we talking about the same thing?”

Foggy laughs. “We’re giving us a try.”

She whoops, giving her congratulations. 

It seems fitting, that their changed relationship is founded on nothing but the truth, where once there were lies. It almost signifies how far they’ve come in the past year.

This isn’t a fairy-tale, and Foggy’s not sure if he’ll get his happy ending, but he’s damn well willing to try.

And with Matt by his side… Who knows?

Things might just work out.

**Author's Note:**

> Does this count as a truth serum fic? I think I took it in a different direction than any normal person. Still, I loved writing this and I really hope you guys loved reading it!  
> Also, I keep forgetting to plug my Tumblr. I go by the same username there, so if you want to come talk or make suggestions or anything, feel free!  
> Thanks so much for reading!


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